“And the Kansas City Massacre changed all that.”
“Yes. It, and the Lindbergh tragedy. The public revulsion that followed the Kansas City Massacre, particularly, got us more money, more men and better backing—and better laws. The heavy artillery we needed to meet the hoodlums on their own battleground and take ’em for a cleanin’.” He stopped, realizing he was lecturing, falling into one of his standard spiels for the press, probably; he seemed a little chagrined, but also seemed to catch that I was leading him on. “But why am I telling you all this? You’re on the fringes of law enforcement yourself—surely you already know it.”
“And have you nabbed those responsible for the Kansas City Massacre?”
Purvis shifted in his seat; his confidence was suddenly undercut by an apparent nervousness. “One of the men, Verne Miller, was found dead in a ditch.”
“A Syndicate hit.”
“Apparently.”
“Why, do you suppose?”
“For botching the job. For killing the man they were there to rescue.”
“Nash, you mean.”
“Certainly. And for killing police officers and federal agents. For bringing the heat down on the lawless.”
“That last I can buy.”
“What
“Nash was the target. Because he knew too much. Surely you know that.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“All right, Melvin. Have it your way. Nash wasn’t the target; he just got accidentally machine-gunned. Who else are you looking for, in connection with the massacre?”
“Well, the other two killers, of course—‘Pretty Boy’ Floyd and Adam Richetti.”
“What if I said that was a load of hooey. That Floyd and Richetti weren’t there.”
His thin lips pursed. “I’d say you were mistaken.”
I shook my head, smiled humorlessly. “Well, I hear they weren’t there.”
“You’re mistaken.” And finally some sarcasm crept into the drawl: “Unless your sources of information are better than mine.”
“Melvin, some things you can’t find out looking through a microscope.” I rose. “I’ll see you later.”
“Sit down, Heller. Sit down!”
I didn’t.
I said, “I may have seen Dillinger. I’m going to check into it a little more. You see, the guy who may be Dillinger is hanging around with a client of mine’s girlfriend. And if you and your college boys get her killed, my client’s going to be unhappy with me. So I’m going to take it nice and easy on this one. I’ll get back to you.”
The muscles in his jaw were pulsing. “Is that your final decision, Mr. Heller?”
“Yeah. Yeah, it is. And don’t bother having any of these Harold Teens try to tail me…you and your boys have been embarrassed enough lately.”
His jaw muscles still jumping, he said, “There’s reward money in this, Heller.”
“I know there is. I mean no offense, Purvis. I’ll be back in touch.”
“Soon?”
“Soon.”
With Cowley, I thought.
And left.
9
I spent the afternoon tailing Lawrence and Polly for what I assured myself was one last time. Around noon I’d driven back to the apartment house on Pine Grove, near the lake, and, with suitcoat and hat off and tie loosened, had just got settled in on the rider’s side with my newspaper when a Checker cab pulled up, and Lawrence and Polly came out and got in. Lawrence was in shirt sleeves and bow tie and straw hat and yellow slacks; and Polly was in a yellow dress and matching hat. They looked like an advert for butter.
I followed ’em to North Lincoln Avenue—just a block or so from Anna’s—and they got out of the cab. As I drove by I saw that, not ten feet away from them, two uniformed cops were standing on the corner, talking. Lawrence didn’t even glance their way. A squad car went by just after I parked, and it swung around to pick up one of the cops, and Lawrence and Polly, strolling along now, didn’t seem to notice or care. If this Lawrence
But apparently not so cool, on this blistering day, to be able to resist the strawberry sundaes he and Polly ate, in lieu of lunch, at the soda fountain next to Biograph Billards. Here they split up, with Polly beaming at him and giving him a peck on the cheek; off she went, presumably to shop—North Lincoln being a nifty little shopping area.
I stayed with Lawrence. I hung a loose tail on him—if this really was Dillinger, he’d be picking up on me any time now, unless I was very careful. After all, he might be armed—though I didn’t see how: he had no coat on, and there was no gun bulge in any of the pockets of his yellow slacks.
Whoever he was, he got his hair cut at the Biograph Barber Shop; and then went across to the Biograph Theater and in the door just to the right of the marquee. Visiting his bookmaker, no doubt—there’d been a bookie joint operating in the loft over that theater for years.
A few minutes later he came out and walked down the street to a haberdashery, the Ward Mitchell Company, where he bought a striped shirt. This I’d glimpsed through the storefront window, and was on my way across the street, to maintain my tail at a distance, and almost missed it when Lawrence came out of the store and bumped into a beat cop who was walking by, swinging his stick.
